Kid’s solid.
Quiet, but solid.
I bring the truck to a stop beside the barn, killing the engine.
The second the rumble dies, the place feels louder—men calling out, gates clanging, the low hum of cattle somewhere in the distance.
Work.
Good, honest work.
The kind me and the guys built Jersey Iron Ranch for.
Before I can even step out, I see him coming.
Chase Baron.
He’s older than me by a good eight, maybe ten years.
Built like a man who still works his own land even if he doesn’t have to.
Sun-weathered face, steady eyes, handshake kind of guy.
The kind of man people listen to.
I step down from the truck, boots hitting dirt, and meet him halfway.
“Gunner,” he says, extending his hand.
“Baron,” I reply, gripping it firm.
He nods once, approving.
“Heard good things,” he says. “Fast growth. Clean product. Reliable runs.”
“That’s the plan,” I answer.
Behind me, Alex’s already moving, popping the back and coordinating with Baron’s crew like he’s been doing this for years.
Good.
That’s what I like to see.
Chase’s gaze shifts past me then.
To the truck.
To her.
Esme hasn’t gotten out yet. She’s sitting there, watching everything with those sharp eyes of hers, taking it all in.
I feel it.
That same pull.
That same awareness.
Every damn second.
